


Aftermath

by stratumgermanitivum



Series: Ficlets [13]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (vaguely implied) - Freeform, Grinding, Introspection, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum
Summary: The little blood left under Will's fingernails no longer looks black, once they’re sequestered in the modest bathroom of the safehouse Hannibal tucks them away in. It looks maroon under the bright white lighting, and then pink slipping away down the drain. They scrub at each other until their skin is also pink and raw, taking stock of each bruise, each cut.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Ficlets [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774918
Comments: 7
Kudos: 138





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Perjamensi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perjamensi/gifts).



The little blood left under Will's fingernails no longer looks black, once they’re sequestered in the modest bathroom of the safehouse Hannibal tucks them away in. It looks maroon under the bright white lighting, and then pink slipping away down the drain. They scrub at each other until their skin is also pink and raw, taking stock of each bruise, each cut.

“Sepsis,” Will says, his voice croaky from disuse and muffled from the crooked way he parts his lips, accounting for the stab wound in his cheek. He circles his fingers around the bullet wound that runs through Hannibal, through a space that contains every vital organ needed to keep Hannibal alive.

“Not impossible,” Hannibal says, massaging shampoo into Will’s hair, “but unlikely. The Dragon would have wanted me to live long enough for him to kill me, and he was an expert shot. If I’ve made it through these past few hours without faltering, I should be alright.”

The ocean has done an excellent job of cleaning their wounds, though Will stings from the salt long after Hannibal has scrubbed it from his skin. Hannibal feeds him painkillers and broth from his suspiciously well-stocked cabinet.

“Chiyoh,” he explains when Will questions it.

“She’s still talking to you?”

“Not for long, I expect.”

“She disapproves of me.”

Hannibal flashes Will a smile, small and private. “As much as she does of me. I suspect after we are finally settled in a permanent location, we will never hear from her again.”

“A debt repaid,” Will mused. “She never owed you anything.”

“The bonds of a chosen family tie us tightly together. They can be difficult to unravel.”

They don’t climb into bed so much as fall into it. Will doesn’t even attempt to make it _under_ the sheets, and Hannibal gives it a half-hearted attempt before instead wrapping himself around Will for warmth.

They wake tangled together, the sun low in the sky. Hannibal has his arm slung low around Will’s side, his fingertips brushing high up on Will’s thigh. One of his calves is trapped between two of Will’s.

They share a breath, a heartbeat. Will blinks away sleep, the heavy fatigue of medicated ‘rest.’ Hannibal looked at him through hazy eyes.

Survival had seemed impossible. It had never been Will’s goal. He’d intended to die the night before, to sprawl bloody and beaten across the ground with Hannibal, walking hand in hand to hell together.

He doesn’t quite know what to do with _life_ , with the revelation that his heart still beats and his body still reaches for Hannibal’s.

Something has happened that Will cannot come back from. Something has twisted and changed within him, irreversible.

Hannibal inches forward. His nose brushes against Will’s. He has morning breath, slightly sour. Will doesn’t move.

Careful, cautious. Their lips brush. Feeling shocks down Will’s spine, warm and sharp as knives. Kissing Hannibal aches.

Not kissing him aches more.

They press together, a tangle of limbs, a cluster of hisses and _ow_ and _not there, still sore_ , clumsily tracing out safe passage amongst the wreckage of their violence.

They’re too injured for true release, but they shift and jerk and create a rhythm that almost feels right, rocking together until the burning need dies down to something more manageable. After, they breathe in each other, hands clasped, forehead to forehead.

“We should get up,” Hannibal murmurs, breathless and pained. “Have breakfast.”

Will hides a laugh against his cheek. “Are you catching, or am I?”


End file.
